


Half Sick of Shadows

by bardsley



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 06:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11846295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bardsley/pseuds/bardsley
Summary: A mysterious dead woman arrives in Camelot. Mordred and Galahad cope in their own ways.





	Half Sick of Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercutioLives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/gifts).



> The focus of the story concerns the death of a minor character.

Mordred crossed to the other side of the courtyard to avoid a chattering pair of the Queen’s ladies, chivalry be damned. He tried to focus on the sound of his own boots against the cobblestones  rather than anything they were saying. Although three days had passed, Mordred was sure they would be talking about the dead woman’s funeral. He could not fault them for that. The arrival of the dead maiden had been strange. If not for her name painted on the boat, they would know nothing about her at all. But the things most people were saying about it were pitiably stupid, and Mordred could, and did, hold them to account for that. 

 

Mordred saw Galahad enter the chapel, which was easily the least surprising place for Galahad to be. However, Mordred felt a glimmer of surprise in that he had not realized that Galahad had returned. He wondered where Galahad had been in the first place. No one seemed to know. While it was quite common for Galahad’s father to leave for days on end, Galahad was typically more reliable.  

 

Mordred followed after him. The sight of Galahad on his knees brought back memories.  They had met in the chapel. Mordred was more than aware that, without interruption, Galahad might stay there all day. So, after what Mordred considered a respectable amount of time, an interruption was just what he provided. “I cannot imagine the state of your knees,” Mordred said loudly. 

 

Galahad barely startled. It was as if he were carrying in him a heavy weight that made him sluggish.  Galahad finished his prayer and crossed himself. He gestured to the outside, and rose slowly to his feet.  

 

Having gotten what he wanted, Mordred was more than content to leave the chapel. 

 

They were outside when Galahad finally spoke. “I was praying for her soul, the dead woman, the Lady of Shalott.”

 

Mordred found himself grateful for the opportunity to speak of her. With any other member of the court, she was a subject that Mordred would have most zealously avoided. But, whatever else he was, Lancelot's pious son was not stupid, nor were his thoughts common. 

 

“No one has stopped talking about her, and how it's such a tragedy that she is dead because she was so pale and pretty and young,” Mordred complained. “As if it would not have mattered that a woman showed up dead in a boat if she were dark or plain or old.”

 

“Of course they don't mean that,” Galahad said. 

 

While Mordred was in no way sure, he did believe that Galahad believed that. It made Mordred want to help the young knight out of Galahad’s own apparently somber mood. “You haven't been here to hear them,” Mordred protested. “Where did you go, anyway?”

 

“I traveled down to Shalott,” Galahad said. Judging by the way his expression clouded over, Mordred was certain they were getting closer to whatever was troubling Galahad.  “I wanted to be able to pray for the maiden’s soul under her own name, so I went to see what people knew of her.”

 

Mordred felt surprised and intrigued in a way that he had come to expect from Galahad.  Now that Galahad had said it, Mordred could not think of where else Galahad might have gone.

 

“What did you find out?”

 

“Her name, as best I can tell, was Elaine,” Galahad answered.  “Most people knew very little about her.”

 

“The same name as your mother,” Mordred observed. He considered for a moment that the common name might be what was upsetting Galahad, but he dismissed it. Galahad didn't usually concern himself with trivial things. Except God. 

 

Galahad only nodded. 

 

“What else did you learn?” Mordred prompted.  

 

“As I said, very little. No one had met her. It was said that she lived by herself in a tower. Only the people who worked in the field had ever heard her. She sang to herself.” There was a pause as heavy as a stone.  “From what I could tell, she had been, her whole life, completely alone.”

 

It was the last word that lingered in Galahad’s mouth, resounding like the bell that summoned them to prayer. That was what was troubling Galahad. Mordred could not quite see it. They were both prone to seeking solitude. Galahad was one of the few people that Mordred preferred being alone with rather than completely by himself. But Galahad was obviously shaken by the thought of this woman alone.

 

“You know how people like to talk,” Mordred said. Every bastard knew how people liked to talk. “It doesn't seem likely that a woman would just be up in a tower all by her lonesome her entire life.”

 

“The people that I talked to seemed certain. I saw the tower. There was a window. She would be able to see the people, watch them work, watch them be together,  but never be a part of them.”

 

Galahad looked up at Mordred. There was something expectant in his expression. Galahad wanted, needed, Mordred to understand. Mordred found that he needed not to disappoint Galahad.  

 

Unfortunately, Mordred’s mouth was quicker than his brain.

 

“You're not alone in a tower!” Galahad was beloved at court, by knights and ladies and common people alike. ...beloved, but not loved.Galahad returned their love with Christian duty, which was to say he loved no man more than any other. And no one loved him.

 

Galahad looked away. 

 

“Perhaps, there is more than one kind of tower,” Mordred muttered.  

 

Galahad looked back at Mordred again. The hope and gratitude Mordred saw in his eyes made his chest ache. (How could Mordred have ever thought those eyes were like Lancelot’s?) It was several moments before Mordred could speak again. 

 

“Let's pray for the soul of Lady Elaine of Shalott,” Mordred suggested. He stepped closer. Close enough that the way his fingers brushed against the back of Galahad’s hand might seem accidental. 

 

Galahad turned his palm up. Their fingertips brushed. It was practically nothing. It would have been nothing from anyone else, but this was Galahad and it felt like something.  

 

“You don't pray,” Galahad observed. He sounded, Mordred flattered himself, a little distracted. 

 

“I do today,” Mordred replied. 

 

A flush of pleasure came to Galahad’s cheeks and he nodded. He let his hand drop to his side. Galahad led the way back to the chapel.

 

“Oh, and by the way…” Mordred said.

 

Galahad turned to look at him.

 

Mordred moved in close again, close enough to feel the heat from Galahad’s body, and that Mordred had to crane his neck to look up at him. 

 

“...you are not  _ alone _ in a tower,” Mordred insisted. 

 

Galahad smiled. 


End file.
